


Ask

by GayFrankensteinsMonster



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Panic Attacks, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-22
Updated: 2015-09-22
Packaged: 2018-04-22 20:01:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4848572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GayFrankensteinsMonster/pseuds/GayFrankensteinsMonster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone makes mistakes sometimes!<br/>Sure, most people's mistakes don't end in huge panicking frenzies on the bathroom floor but, hey, everyone DOES make mistakes!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ask

Simmons couldn't breathe. He sat there on the floor of the bathroom, stripped down to the bottom of his undersuit, fingernails biting into the sides of his ribs, breath hitching and eyes wide.

He couldn't breathe. He was trying. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, inhale, inhale, choke, choke, choke scream choke inhale-

His mind felt blank as he panicked. What had happened to cause this? He couldn't remember. He remembered pulling his helmet off and laughing and

White. He remembered white.

Simmons folded up into himself, wrapping his arms around his head and trying to force himself to breathe properly. Try again. Try to remember.

 

* * *

 

It had been just after dinner, probably. Simmons definitely remembered dishes being stacked and Grif prodding him to take evening patrol. He'd relented, scooping up his helmet and putting it on before getting dragged off to the Warthog. Then they were off on "patrol", which honestly amounted to little more than a joyride over the cliffs. They did swing by blue base, with Grif sitting up on his knees while driving to yell insults at them. The blues responded with a sniper round that buried itself in a rock fifteen feet away, and Tucker swearing about being out of practice with this goddamn thing. Grif had cackled at that, falling back into his seat and punching down hard on the gas. Evening patrol was fun. Simmons had to admit that.

He wasn't panicking because of fun, though. Think harder.

It had to have happened after. When they had pulled back into their base, Grif parking the Warthog outside and tugging his helmet off. His eyes were blown out wide, hair sticking up at odd angles and a broad grin stretching his face. Simmons had mirrored the movement, resting his helmet on his lap and smiling over at his teammate. He'd forgotten how nice this was.

And honestly, he'd forgotten how much he genuinely enjoyed spending time with Grif. It was one of the only times he felt relaxed in Valhalla. He could be out of armor, let his voice crack, laugh, overall just do things he wouldn't consider doing around anyone else. He was comfortable around Grif, Grif was comfortable around him. They were friends! Wasn't anyone he'd rather spend time with.

He'd spaced out for a moment there, turning his helmet over in his hands and tracing the lines of it with the pad of his thumb. So, he hadn't really noticed Grif twitching his hands on his lap, tapping his feet, generally just. Fidgeting. Hadn't noticed the other man turning to face him and inhaling deeply, clearly nervous. He had noticed when Grif cleared his throat and spoke up, voice almost too quiet to be heard.

"Hey, uh. Simmons?"

He'd snapped out of it, turning and cocking his head as he looked over at his teammate. Grif looked so scared, Simmons felt his heart rise up to his throat. Oh no. He'd done something. Grif was getting shipped off to another base. Grif was going home. Grif was kissing him.

Grif was kissing him

It took Simmons a second to recognize what had happened. He could feel a shaking hand resting on his knee and soft lips pressed against his, and he could see Grif. He could see closed eyes and brown cheeks flushed hot and furrowed black eyebrows.

He just did that. He just did that.

Simmons panicked. Oh, did he panic. He didn’t really know what to do in this situation and lashed out, fist connecting with Grif's face and then shoving himself out of the car. His helmet tumbled under and wasn't retrieved, because he was too busy scrambling to get up and bolting to the base at a speed probably only attainable by ships with warp drives and terrified soldiers whose best friend just kissed them.

Of course, that ends up all going a little fuzzy when you can't breathe and you've been sitting on a cold tile floor for going on three hours. Simmons kneads at his remaining non-metal ribs and tries to steady his breathing again, his sides aching from either a lack of oxygen or strenuous exercise in a binder. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

Good? Good.

Not good. This still isn’t good. He’s still trying to rationalize what just happened.

The facts were these. One: Grif had kissed him. Two: He had punched Grif in the face and bolted. Three: He was locked in a communal bathroom and curled up on the floor, hyperventilating. Four: He was probably gay.

The last one didn’t come as a shock to him, but it did require some thought. Kissing another guy didn’t automatically make you gay. What did? Simmons drew his knees up to his chest and rested his chin there, contemplating. He did find Grif pretty attractive, under all the filthy habits and sweat and general Grif-ness. It… Seemed to be reciprocated. Given the circumstances. Of course, Simmons did just break the guy’s nose, so. He’s not going to hold out on that continuing to be true. But what about a relationship? Everyone always talked about getting desperate in the army, fucking anything that moved, but. That wasn’t really a “take your clothes off now I haven’t had sex in so long” kiss. Simmons wasn’t exactly the best at reading… anyone, really, but it just didn’t seem desperate. Grif had been nervous and soft and gentle, even-

And Simmons had flipped his shit and punched him in the face. Good job, buddy.

He groaned and rubbed his temples, forehead pressed into the palm of his hand. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Next time, he should just skip everything and tape a sign to his armor that said “PLEASE KICK ME, I UNDERSTAND NOTHING ABOUT INTERPERSONAL RELATIONSHIPS OR HUMAN SEXUALITY.” That should do the trick.

He was interrupted in his spiral of self-hatred by a knock on the door and an uncharacteristically nasal voice calling out.

“Simmons? You, uh. You okay to talk? I got the first aid kit, but. I didn’t hear any glass or crying or anything, so. I figured you weren’t. Punching things.”

Fuck. _Fuck. Fuck!_

“Hold on! Let me just-!” Shit, alright, he could do this, he could do this, he just needs to articulate. Simmons was flattered, he just needs to confirm some things, he doesn’t want to end up like this again, he just wants to know where his goddamn shirt is he’s not facing Grif with his tits out. Alright, there’s the top half of his undersuit, he’ll just- Get stuck in that like a goddamn jackass. It is not Dick Simmons’ day. Fuck it, this is good enough. He unlocked the door, stepping back out of the way as it opened. His arms were folded in front of him, shoulders raised and curled inwards as he looked down at Grif.

Jeez, that punch really did a number on him. There was a wad of gauze taped over his nose, and he held an icepack to the side of it. That sure wasn’t going to heal straight. Simmons felt his stomach twist and sink, and he stepped out of the bathroom so as not to make this any weirder than it already was. Grif inhaled deeply in preparation of a speech, standing there in the hallway and looking remarkably small. When he talked, there wasn’t a hint of bite or humor in his words. He was serious, now.

“I’m, uh. I’m sorry. For what happened earlier. It was really, really fucked up to just. Spring something like that onto you. Like, holy shit, huge assumption on my part-! Uh. Um.”

Grif tossed the ice pack from hand to hand before absently thumbing at his nose to swipe at a bead of blood. He didn’t meet Simmons’ line of sight, always ducking his head and raising his shoulders.

“So, recap: I fucked up, I’m sorry, won’t happen again-”

“Now, wait.”

Simmons interrupted him, which honestly surprised even himself. Score one for the socially anxious. He took a deep breath, steeled himself, and spoke quickly.

“You kinda did fuck up and make assumptions but if we’re being completely candid here I just panicked and kind of kept panicking so I didn’t really mean to punch you in the face and it would be nice if it happened again and-” Pause for breath, he’s almost run out of steam by now, “and maybe happened on a more regular basis.”

Grif blinked. It looked like he had been stunned into silence, lips barely moving as he mouthed Simmons’ words back to himself. More regular basis. Now it was Simmons’ turn to avoid eye contact, face burning up to the tips of his ears. There was a sick-sounding, decidedly unattractive throat clearing, and Grif reached out to tap Simmons on the shoulder.

“So. Could I kiss you? Seeing as how it looks like a good idea to ask. No telling what part of me you might fuck up with your cyborg-strength if I don’t.”

Simmons rolled his eyes, relaxing almost imperceptibly. See? Nothing changed. There’s still teasing, and snark, and everything that made this such a good type of relationship. It just happened to include this now. And maybe other things. Hopefully other things.

He leaned down, carefully dodging the bruised potato that passed for what Grif called a nose at the moment, and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“Just ask next time, dumbass.”


End file.
